When poet Mr. William Stafford incorporeally
came to visit, he noticed that when words
collapse, the dense low trees became
my harbor.
Then he reminded me how miraculous
were the daily workings of plants
as their photosynthesis built ladders
to the sun
and how, in my animal mind,
all lost syllables can again come home
to their true meanings found waiting
among those trees if I would just
look.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2019
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